


The Exile

by elderwitty, squidgie



Series: Citrus Hill [1]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Citrus Hill, M/M, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-12
Updated: 2010-10-12
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:22:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elderwitty/pseuds/elderwitty, https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidgie/pseuds/squidgie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'verse summary: AU.  Rodney was bad at work, and has been exiled by SGC to a tiny town outside of Gainesville, Florida.  This is the story of Rodney's time in Citrus Hill, a handsome guy named John who he meets under less-than-optimal circumstances, and how he learns a bit about life in the South.</p>
<p>Story summary: Rodney tries to adjust to his new life after SGC mandated exile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Exile

**Author's Note:**

> (squidgie): Can I just say that AU's are so completely awesome!?!? Many thanks from me to elderwitty for introducing me to AUs, after I avoided them my entire life, thinking, "But it's not canon! How can I read it?!?!". And even more thanks to elderwitty for going down the rabbit hole with me on this, then doing the fabulous beta. This has been so incredibly fun!  
> (elderwitty): squidgie is fabulous

Rodney stands on his new deck, the humidly warm Florida night insanely different than the environment he's been used to over the last year.  He thinks back on his time in Colorado, and tries not to let his blood pressure go up too much.  "Fuck it," he mutters.  Yeah, not so much; his blood pressure shoots up anyway.  He yells at the oranges and yellows of the setting sun, neighbors luckily too far away to hear him, demanding to know just what got him to this point in the first place.

Maybe it was the yelling.

Maybe it was the seven project managers that he went through in under twelve months. 

Maybe it was that, as more staff abandoned and outright refused to work with him, he had to do more of the work himself.

Maybe it was all the scowling.  Rodney'd overheard an intern talking quietly on the phone one afternoon, whispering that, "He's _horrible_.  I bet he could scowl while having the world's greatest orgasm."  (Rodney didn't think that was true, but it _had_ been so very, very long.)

Whatever the case (and Rodney still thinks that incompetent management - and incompetent coworkers - caused most of the problems), he was given a one-year remote assignment for Stargate Command with loose deadlines and strict orders to learn how to calm down.  The SGC shipped Rodney, his essential living materials, a basic lab, and enough food to get him through until his car arrived, to a small house they'd rented for him. Rodney called it "Anti-Colorado", but it was really just a little cottage outside Gainesville, Florida in the tiny town of Citrus Hill.  "Why Florida?" he had asked, but hadn't expected General O'Neill's blunt response, 'Because it's far enough away that if you try to make it back before we think you're ready, we can stop you.'

Settling in on his second night, after the first was blighted by a long search for basic necessities, Rodney is anxious.  Admittedly, when he finally had uncovered the coffee (tucked in the bottom of a box of electronics equipment - ?) it was the good stuff - a nice Kona blend.  He feels exiled and nervous, the sluggish breeze not bringing him any comfort.  An owl hoots in the distance, the sound wavering on the night air, as a squirrel searches for sustenance.  "Intolerable nature," Rodney grumbles, locking eyes with the squirrel.  "You!" Rodney points a finger, as if accusing him of treason.  "Get the hell out of here with your…" Rodney flails his arms about, angry at nature, angry at Stargate Command, angry at the world and now angry at himself for spilling the last of his coffee while showing his displeasure at the squirrel.  He turns and heads back into the rental house, but not before staring the squirrel down.  He's almost sure that the squirrel flips him off on its way back up to its nest.  "Nature.  Bah!"

He leaves the French doors open to catch the breeze and cool the house down, but doesn't plan on sleeping.  Instead, he goes back to his notes to work on a formula that's just out of his grasp.  Rodney is oblivious to the passing of time, working through the dark hours, until sleep captures him, and he slumps onto his notes and pen, drooling liberally, obliterating the small amount of progress he has made since his government-imposed exile began.

A gigantic noise right outside the still open French doors wakes Rodney with a start.  As if to tell him it wasn't a dream, the intense noise recurs. Rodney stands up quickly, and is forced to steady himself on the dining room chair that had involuntarily been his bed.  Oblivious to the fact that his hair is sticking every which way, and sporting a colossal ink mark that would look to the casual observer as an exclamation point, Rodney storms off in the direction of the noise.  He stops in the doorway to watch a man in a blue jumpsuit picking up the packing material-crammed trash cans that Rodney'd filled over the last two days (and also the overflow since he had unpacked rather quickly and untidily).  The man dumps the two metal cans onto a small cart, banging the cans a bit more before hauling them out to a waiting garbage truck.

He knows that the man must have seen him, which makes Rodney's eyes go a darker shade of blue, eyelids closed to a slit of what they should be; the glare he normally reserves for incompetent interns.  He follows the lanky man, calling out, "Excuse me!" and balls the drooled on papers in his fist, waiting for the man to acknowledge him.  The man stops and turns, but doesn't respond.  Instead, his lips are flattened out into a straight line, as an eyebrow quirks up towards hair that seems to be as unmanageable as Rodney's.  The man stands and stares at Rodney, until Rodney finally harrumphs and closes the distance between them.

"Are you aware that in _most_ civilized parts of this country that banging around in people's yards at ungodly hours of the morning would be considered cruel and unusual punishment?  Is this considered -" Rodney glances at the nametag on the man's jumpsuit, a stylized _JOHN_ in blue lettering on a white background, then watches as this "John" person tilts his head slightly, green eyes narrowing as they focus on something interesting that seems to be Rodney's face.  Rodney tries to refocus on his rant.  " _John._ Is this considered _appropriate_ for this area?  I'm sure that the mayor would just love to hear about townspeople being roused at the crack of dawn by their garbage man."  Rodney thinks this should definitely get a response; after not having much human contact in three days, he's ready for anything.

"We prefer the term 'Sanitation Engineer'," John replies, but Rodney mostly misses it, though he's normally annoyed by the casual use of "Engineer" by laypeople.  Instead he's focused on the long fingers emerging from John's glove, mesmerized as John brings his thumb up to his mouth to moisten it, and then seems to aim the damp digit at Rodney's face, moving slowly, as if on autopilot or in a trance.  Rodney sees the odd look on John's face, guesses the trajectory of the thumb, and swats it away.

"What the hell?"  Rodney is seriously wide-eyed now, wondering if customs and norms from the rest of the United States, as well as regular human interaction, are alien in this part of the world.  "You just picked up garbage, and now you're _licking your finger and trying to touch me with it_?  Do you know what kind of bacteria you just subjected yourself to?  Not to mention almost subjected _me_ to.  That's disgusting!" 

John squints, ignoring Rodney's rant, still staring at his cheek.  "Did you do that on purpose?"  He shifts his stance, his lean body now more prominently displayed underneath his jumpsuit.  By Rodney's face, it's obvious that he has no clue what John means.  "You got a… a thing."  John makes a circle with his finger over Rodney's cheek. 

Rodney brings his own hand up to his face, thumb rubbing vigorously over the spot John indicated, then looks at the black smudge of ink now coating his digit, and obviously, by the new smile brewing on John's face, covering even more of his cheek.  "Oh Jesus, not again."  John's smile blossoms as a chuckle escapes his chest, warm as the sun that's currently beating down on the two men.  "What?" Rodney snipes at the dark-haired man.

"'S funny."

Rodney glares daggers at John.  "It is _not_ funny.  I simply fell asleep while I was working last night."  Rodney gathers steam and pushes full-bore ahead, aiming directly for John.  "And if I had been able to wake up when _I_ wanted to, _I_ would have been able to shower and have a couple of pots of coffee to be able to _deal_ with _people like you!_   But instead, here I am, at the crack of dawn-"

John cuts him off abruptly.  "Crack of dawn?"  John looks up towards the sun, high in the sky.  Rodney looks at him as if he has lost his mind.  "Sir-"

" _Doctor._ "  It's Rodney's turn to interrupt John.  " _Doctor_ Rodney McKay," he growls at John, his irritation growing.  He'd worked too hard for his two PhDs for them to be dismissed.  John gives him an apologetic look, with a shot of, " _Can you look at this rash?"_ thrown in for good measure before Rodney blurts, "Physics _and_ Mechanical Engineering."  Rodney rakes his eyes over John, taking him all in.  Though Rodney didn't start out of his house a fan of John, much less thinking of him sexually, as Rodney becomes more alert, he realizes just how damn attractive the man in front of him is.

"I'm sorry, _Doctor_ McKay," John emphasizes a bit sarcastically, "but if you look up, you'll notice the sun is pretty high in the sky."  John looks at his watch, and then turns it to where the good doctor can see it.  "It's nearly noon."

It takes a second for the words to register in his head; he's so confused with the events of the day so far, and the attractive man he's currently talking to isn't helping any.  "Noon?"  All previous vitriol drains from his voice as he takes in the sun, the blue sky, and the birds chirping in the sky.  A faint "Wha?" joins the buzz of a plane from somewhat far in the distance, humming just loud enough to register.

"Yep," is all John adds, before turning back to his work.  "Gotta get your stuff loaded and get on with my route."  He tips an imaginary hat to Rodney, turns, and then throws back over his shoulder, "Nice to meet you, Doctor McKay."  This time, the emphasis and bit of attitude seems to be gone.  John thunderously empties the two metal cans into the back of the garbage truck and turns to put them back into his carrier to take them back to McKay's house, but instead finds himself face to face with the man with the wild hair and newly smudged facial punctuation. 

Rodney quietly says, "I'll take them back.  Thanks."  His eyes are back to their normal sparkling blue, indicating a slight tone of apology to the nice looking man in the jumpsuit.

"Thank _you_ , McKay," John shoots back and winks, allowing Rodney a chance to smile over the whole somewhat embarrassing incident. 

Rodney picks up his trash cans to head back to the house.  Emboldened slightly by the wink, he stops and turns, catching John's eye and realizing that John was watching him walk back.  Now with _Oh my god, was he checking me out?_ running roundabout through his brain, he flashes back on John’s assertion.  "Engineer?"

"Sanitation Engineer, remember?"  John leans back against the monstrous truck, furry chest peeking out from the t-shirt he's wearing underneath the blue jumpsuit, causing a slight hitch in Rodney's throat.

"So like, what.  You graduated from garbage man school or something?"  Rodney's tone is gentle and light, and John knows he's just playing with him at this point.

"University of Florida, actually," John states smugly.  "Masters degree in applied mathematics." 

Once again the outrageous clang of the garbage cans sounds loudly through the spring morning.  "But."  Rodney sputters slightly, cans now lying at his feet.  "But.  _You're a garbage man_."

"Sanitation Engineer," John corrects Rodney yet again.  "Jesus, McKay.  You'd think an egghead like you would be able to remember a simple thing like that."  The look on Rodney's face is remarkably shocked, and John imagines Rodney's mouth agape, like it is now, how moist it would feel, contrasted by the scruff of Rodney's unshaven face.  John lets an easy laugh escape as Rodney retrieves his garbage cans, then trips over a lid and windmills his arms to keep him from falling over.  Now in full-throated laugh, John throws his head back, into the vehicle's compacting lever.  His "Owww!" is drowned out by the growling of the trash compacting system coming to life.

With the sound of the garbage truck fading into the distance, (and Rodney's ears drained of the blush of red they held after his talk with John), he showers and goes back to work on his equations while he waits for the delivery of his car and the installation of a secure internet connection back to SGC in Colorado.  Unfortunately for his nerves, the car deliveryman shows up, demanding Rodney's attention while he's still instructing the telecom technician on where best to install the router ("Oh, and you _do_ know how to do this, _right?_   This isn't the first T1 line you've installed in this Calcutta backwater town, _is it?”_ ).  Torn between the two, the car delivery wins out, and Rodney storms outside to watch the offloading of his car, then signs for it. 

After the car is delivered and tucked into the detached garage, Rodney goes back to his formulas, though he keeps a keen eye on the telecom engineer.  As the engineer bends over to plug in the router, Rodney thinks back on John, and the curve of his ass that tantalized even through the worn jumpsuit.  Suddenly Rodney is recalled to reality by an " _ahem!_ " from the installer.  Blushing, Rodney looks up and says, "I'm sorry… I was…working on something," and goes back to typing.

The installer flings the toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and asks, "You want to plug in and try to connect?" eliciting an affirmative grunt from Rodney.  He plugs the Ethernet cord into his laptop, strikes up his VPN connection to SGC, and smiles for just the second time that day.

Reading this as an admission of a job completed, the engineer starts to pack up his equipment.  "If'n there's nothin' else you need, I'll be headin' out."

"No, no.  Of course."  Rodney stands to see the man out, thrusts his hands into his pockets, jamming a finger on one of the keys to his newly delivered car.  As the engineer crosses the threshold into the late afternoon sun, Rodney chases after him.  "Ooh, wait, wait, wait!" he calls after the man.

"It just occurred to me that," and Rodney waves his arms about, "I really don't know anything about this place.  Like where to get groceries.  And proper coffee."

"Well sir," the engineer begins, "There's a Seven Eleven down yonder, about a mile on the main road.  You can get stuff there.  And they got _real good_ coffee for ninety nine cents, if'n you show up early enough."

Rodney rolls his eyes uncontrollably at the thought of having to subject himself to the brown water served by most convenience stores.  "What about a grocery store?" Just to make sure he understands, Rodney adds, "Somewhere that I can get a lot of stuff, not just frozen crap that tastes no better than the cardboard it comes in."

"There's a Piggly Wiggly 'bout eight miles up yonder, near Highway 75."  Since Rodney is so new to the area, he tries to make it easy for him.  "You got a piece of paper?"

After he ducks into the kitchen for his notebook, Rodney re-appears ready to write down the directions.  "Okay," the toothpick-chomping engineer starts.  "Go right down here" he points down the road, "'bout three miles until you get to the cemetery."  Rodney writes, until he realizes what is coming out of the man's mouth, then stares at him as he continues.  "'Kay.  Now after you get to the cemetery, turn right.  You'll drive another four miles, and that's when you'll see the tractor."

"The tractor?" Rodney asks, voice indicating that the very words are sucking the intelligence right out of his brain.

"Yessir, you can't miss it.  So right there at the tractor, you're gonna turn left.  Then stay on that road for one mile, and the Piggly Wiggly'll be right there on your left."

Rodney's pen slams against his notebook.  "Thanks," he adds flatly, then turns to walk into the house, missing the snide ‘City folk’ comment the installer makes under his breath.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Artwork for 'Citrus Hill' by elderwitty & squidgiepdx](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091145) by [danceswithgary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/danceswithgary/pseuds/danceswithgary)




End file.
